


Come and Go Like Rivers (or: Damn You, Lovely)

by Words_instead



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Community: kradamadness, Harlequin, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:51:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Words_instead/pseuds/Words_instead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For moirariordan's prompt: <i>Kris is the kind of famous at this point that people don't actually give a shit what he does anymore. And he's bored - really bored. So he starts fucking with people. Obviously.</i></p><p>  <i>It goes pretty well until management gets fed up and brings in their secret weapon, which is really unfair. A new publicist, maybe, or a strategic leak of embarrassing pictures to put him in his place, but his ex-boyfriend? Really?</i></p><p>  <i>(AKA the one where Kris and Adam had EPIC FIRST LOVE and broke up for some tragic reason and now Kris is famous and a little crazy and Adam saves him from himself. Or...something.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Come and Go Like Rivers (or: Damn You, Lovely)

"These games gave got to stop."

Kris doesn't even look up from his phone. "Why, what've you got against Minesweeper?"

Priscilla slams her hand down on the conference table so hard he jumps, losing the precarious balance he'd achieved while tipped back in his chair with his feet up. The chair comes down and his hand slips: the game goes up in smoke.

"I'm serious," she hisses. "I just got a call from Bieber's people. Apparently, _someone_ was under the impression that if he attended the Teen Choice awards in a pink leotard and tutu skirt, _someone else_ would write a song for him."

"Oh, come on. Guy can't take a joke?"

"You faxed him a memo using the company's official letterhead. I've still got legal working out whether anything you promised was, in fact, binding."

"Aw, Priss. You know he was asking for it."

"How was he asking for it?"

"His hair was asking for it," he mutters as he presses buttons.

"Kris. I'm worried about you. We all are."

"It was a _joke_."

"And when you got Cale to release two dozen shelter cats in the studio during Jessica Simpson's recording session? What was that?"

"She kept complaining about her backup. Thought she'd appreciate knowing what a chorus of alley cats _really_ sounded like." He hunches his shoulders at Priscilla's look. "Whatever. The backup singers thought it was hilarious."

She puts her hand to her forehead -- over-dramatic, he thinks. "You weren't even involved in that session," she moans. "Couldn't you leave it alone?"

"It was for a good cause! All those cats were adopted in, like, a week." He lets a smile stretch across his mouth. "You know how celebrity makes everyone want a piece of you. I think a couple were offered a record deal."

"And then the peanut butter in Mayer's shoes during his live interview --"

"They never proved that was me."

"Or the skywriting when Norah played the Today Show?"

"That wasn't even a prank. Have you heard her latest album? I would marry her in a heartbeat."

"I know you get a kick out of this," she continues as if she hasn't heard him. "I know 4chan has declared you their personal God, or whatever. And I know you get away with it because everyone out there thinks you walk on water." She places both hands on the table in order to look him in the eye. "But the rest of us -- the ones on the inside? -- we're worried sick about you."

"I don't know why --"

"You haven't put out anything new in three years," she pursues. "You're becoming on of those people where it's easier to remember their last appearance on Perez Hilton than their last single."

Okay, _that_ stung. "I'm a songwriter. No one notices songwriters in this town -- you're nobody unless you front a band."

"It used to be different. With you."

He shrugs. "Things change."

She pressed her lips together in a line. "Maybe too much. The bigwigs want you to go back to your roots. They're pairing you with an artist they're courting." Her voice becomes softer, coaxing. "You used to love that, remember? Building an entire project from the ground up. Working with someone new to the industry, untainted, still believes in the power of music... And this guy is incredible, Kris. Musical sensibility of a pro, and his voice -- has to be heard to be believed."

He tips his head back, sighs. She's not wrong.

"Okay," he says finally. "Say I'm considering it. Just who is this guy?"

She tells him.

He starts laughing. He doesn't mean to be a jerk, he just -- he's helpless to it for a good minute, shoulders shaking as he hunches over.

"Oh, man," he says, wiping at his eyes. "I'm sorry, it's just -- you got me there good, okay? For a second I really... I mean it, who did they pick?"

So she tells him again.

~~++~~

 

"Kris!" The door handle jiggles as his manager works it from the other side. "Kris, come out of there!"

"Never." He's got his back against the door and his feet against the sink. Priss may be bigger and meaner than he is, but he paid just enough attention in high school to know physics is on his side. 

"This is an overreaction."

" _Really?_ "

"He's young, he's talented -- we lucked into this because he requested you by name. He could have his pick of the town with the press he's generating."

"For winning a karaoke contest. I'm not working with someone who can sing "Puppy Love" in front of thousands and feel no shame." He feels Priss slam the section of the bathroom door right behind his head. "Ow!"

"You're doing this."

"I'm not." He wedges himself even tighter against the door. "They can't make me."

"No, they can't. They can sue for breech of contract."

"Breech of --"

"You haven't made up the deficit of songs agreed to before your contract ends. You could probably pound them out in the next eight months, but I know you and so do they, so they know you don't work like that."

"We were talking an extension!"

"They've changed their minds. They want this instead."

"I have _five Grammys_ with my name on them, and they want to take me to court?"

He hears Priss sigh. "Just what is the problem?"

"Have you seen him? Have you heard his interviews? Do you know they started calling him "Archie" because the kid acts like a visitor from the planet Sock Hop?"

"... you can't stay in there forever. This time it won't take as long to get you out -- security put in a request for tasers."

"Priss, he's the human equivalent of a three-legged puppy. He's the princess of sweetness and cherry pie. I bet talking birds help him pick out his socks every morning."

"He's a real person, not a Disney character."

"He is a _muppet_ ," Kris hisses. 

~~++~~

 

"At least talk to him," Priss says as she hands him an ice pack. 

He puts it on his lip with a wince. No tasers, but there was a new guy built like a freaking truck. "Aaz thoo thalk abow?"

"What?"

"I said," taking the pack away from his mouth, "what's to talk about? His album's already slated for a September release, I saw it written up. What'd he even request me _for_?"

She hands him an address.

~~++~~

 

It's a recording studio he's familiar with. David "Archie" Archuleta is there, all right, doing some dub tracks for a car commercial. Something to do with that show he was on, Kris tries not to pay too much attention when he's ushered in after Archie gives the go-ahead, eyes shining from behind the mike like beacons of oh God this was such a mistake.

He sulks behind the mixer for twenty minutes and amuses himself by watching the suits drool. Any time there's a pause they're off, talking "accessibility" and "cross-generational" and none of it means anything, none of it has to. All they hear when they talk is the chime of cash registers. 

It doesn't bother him, actually. It used to, but he's learned it has nothing to do with him or his work, and he shouldn't act like it does. Now he only flinches at things like "heartland appeal" which, there it goes. He loves California, and he's got the lifestyle down from his clothes to his coffee order. But it still drives him nuts when they talk like all states without a coastal border are filled with inbred hicks threatened by anything that isn't completely sexless and/or wrapped in the flag. 

(Aw, jeez. If they put the puppy in something star-spangled, that's a deal breaker, he's out.)

Eventually the session finishes, the suits leave, and he's got no place to hide. 

"Hi!" The kid comes over -- bounces over, let's be honest -- to Kris, hands nervously tucking his hair. "Hi, um, I'm David. I guess you know that!" He laughs.

Should have written Bieber his damn song, Kris thinks. 

"Anyway, um, Ms. Mogarti said I should just, you know, show you the place. She said we could take your ride, talk and stuff on the way over..?" 

Kris looks at the guy in the corner who is obviously not a suit, despite wearing one. "Your security okay with that?"

"Barry? Oh, I, I thought maybe it would bother you. You know, having him around."

Kris has a scar on his ankle from when he came between an eleven-year-old fan and Jonas brother, so no. Barry, it's determined, will follow in the studio's ride. 

Kris makes a show of twirling his keys around one finger. "Let's hit the road."

~~++~~

 

He knows how to get to the Los Angeles Theatre, so most of his concentration is taken up with the fact he's obviously fallen into an alternate dimension of crazy.

"Musical theater?" he manages when the kid pauses to breathe. "You want to do musical theater." He thinks that makes his point as it stands, but can't help adding: "In Los Angeles."

"Well, it wasn't _my_ idea? But I think it's a good one?" He leans into seat belt like a puppy straining at the leash. "I mean, there's this really, um, vibrant theater community in the area, it's just that it doesn't get as much attention as... as--"

"As the multi-billion international movie industry around the corner."

"Yeah, that."

"And you want to be in this, this _Oliver!_ remake," Kris can't believe he's saying the words as if it were a real thing, "as a rock musical."

"It's not so much a remake," he explains, earnest, "as a re-visioning? They want to, um, update the setting, incorporate some of the original songs but mainly do new ones, uh, expand some parts and eliminate others, that kind of thing. Almost a satire, but nicer? And with more special effects?" He cranes his neck to catch Kris's expression, biting his lip. "They put out a short press release. It sounds amazing, you know? 'On the streets of Hollywood a would-be star achieves his dreams, and a young boy becomes a man in a landscape that defies imagination.'"

"It sounds like a porn," Kris says flatly. 

Archie wilts.

They stay silent until they've reached their destination and parked the car, where Kris relents. "How did you even find out about this?" he asks as they walk over to the back entrance.

The kid _blushes_ , flush spreading from collar to cheeks in a blotchy red that looks painful. "I, um." He swallows as Kris stares. "The guy who's putting it all together? I'm a big fan. They announced he was doing it on his fan club, so I, uh --"

"Made some calls?" 

"Yeah." He gives a shy smile as they make their way inside. "Guess there's an upside to being, um, kind of famous."

"So why bring me on board?"

"Because you'd be _perfect_!" There it is again: the light shining from his eyes like he's a robot of childlike goodness with laser beams set to stun. "You'd be amazing, oh my gosh, and Mr. Cook always says in interviews you're one of his favorite songwriters --"

The Los Angeles Theatre has the kind of gorgeousness that can overwhelm, all marble pillars and wrought iron, red-carpeted staircases beckoning you from one level to the next. It should feel ostentatious but doesn't, somehow so secure in its gestalt that you can end up feeling like the one a that's step out of time. Usually when Kris visits he tries to take it in -- it's so rare to find something, anything in L.A. so sure of itself -- but this time it's difficult because: "Cook? Wait, not David Cook."

"Yeah!" Nodding enthusiastically. "He came all the way out here for this project, isn't that amazing? Do you like his music?"

No, Kris does not. Well, that's unfair. Cook is good -- a rougher side of rock and roll than Kris usually favors, but there's an integrity to his work, in its focus and coherence, that Kris can do nothing but respect. It isn't Cook's fault Kris can never bring himself to actually buy any of his five gold-ranked indie albums, or that he'll snap off the car radio whenever the singles come on the air. Well, maybe it's his fault -- not like Cook doesn't pick his own collaborators. Kris can't hate the man for knowing talent when he hears it, but when the gossip rags claim he and said talent are close, maybe even very close, close enough that when that talent had a meltdown during previews of the latest Broadway vehicle he'd --

Wait.

 _Wait_.

"Why is David Cook," Kris asks, lips already numb, "a rock artist based in New York, doing a musical," he can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, "in L.A.?"

"He says he's always wanted to do this," Archie says, "but it had to be with Mr. Lambert, and of course Mr. Lambert was always, like, really busy and booked, but after the --" He stops, clears his throat. "He was kind of fired? So I guess he's got the time, now." 

Then, just because God wants him to remember he hasn't been to church in five months and that shit does not fly, Kris hears laughter coming from the rooms ahead. It's ridiculous, after all this time, but that's all it takes for Kris to be certain of who is behind that door.

He stops. He doesn't think he's physically capable of walking closer to any room with that person in it. 

"I left something in the car."

~~++~~

 

He doesn't wait for her to finish her greeting as she picks up the call. "Fuck you."

" _Kris._ " She seems genuinely shocked. Good.

His throat's so constricted it's a fight to sound normal -- he knows he doesn't look it. God bless tinted windows. "That wasn't kind."

Priss sighs, and Kris curses tequila. He doesn't care if it'd been his idea to help his manager cope with separating from her partner of thirteen years by bar-hopping. Or that the law of heavy drinking dictates that kind of misery can only be mitigated with a game of Let Me Tell You About The Time An Ex Screwed _Me_ Up. Priss's girl is in Montana, not loose on the streets of L.A.

Fuck. Adam is in his city. _Fuck_. He tilts his head against the seat and wills himself not to have a panic attack. 

He slams his open hand against the steering wheel. It helps, the sting of impact is centering. "What the hell, Priss? Is this because of what we discussed? Because it's way out of line --"

"This isn't a punishment and it wasn't on purpose. When I spoke to Archuleta's reps they said exactly what I passed along: he wanted to bring you on the project. I only found out about Lambert when I asked around."

"And you didn't think it was a great reason to pass on the offer?"

"Oh, honey." Kris knows he's failing wretchedly at hiding his state of mind when she uses that tone. "Are you really going to let him scare you away from a job?"

Yes. No. Shit. "I don't even want it." He feels like he's aged sixty years in the last ten minutes. "You're bullying me." 

"You know what I've figured out about you?"

He winces. "What?"

"You're stuck." She lets that sink in. "I don't know, maybe you've been stuck since I met you." He can picture her at her desk, window looking out onto the smoggy city. "There is no reason for an artist of your calibre to be stalled at this stage of his career. Songwriters get _better_ with age, which is why sometimes it's the only job worth having. But you're stuck." 

He has a response to that. He does. He just needs a minute. 

"I think you've had seven years to deal with what happened and you haven't. I resent being reduced to what is basically an overpaid therapist, so I want you to go in there, smile at the guy who ripped your heart out, sign the contracts, and take the damn job." 

He's already shaking his head. "There's nothing --"

"Lambert's trying to keep our boy off the project. Did Archuleta tell you?"

Kris blinks. "I -- what?"

"That's another tidbit his reps left out. Lambert really doesn't want him there, but if you come on board maybe Cook will have to ignore the diva fits. Apparently he's been giving the kid shit."

He has a headache. "That doesn't sound like him." 

"It's been a while, maybe he's changed." Pointedly: " _You_ have."

She isn't wrong. 

He takes a deep breath. 

"I want first billing on any collaborations. And they need to run any post-development changes by me before anything goes into the show." 

"Already agreed-upon."

"What's my percentage for the cast recording?"

She tells him. It's a nice number.

He sighs. "Bieber's gonna be pissed when he hears I'm taking a different freshman to prom."

He can almost hear her smile. "That's my boy."

**Author's Note:**

> My current NaNo 2012 project, so hopefully this will be updated regularly when that ends.


End file.
